


The Eye In Himring

by ElenCelebrindal



Series: Quenta Quenelya [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Poor Maedhros, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, True Love, implicit though, not entirely explicit but this is maedhros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29462871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenCelebrindal/pseuds/ElenCelebrindal
Summary: Of somewhat peaceful times in Himring, and of when Fingon discovered Maedhros’ worst physical scar.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: Quenta Quenelya [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152818
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	The Eye In Himring

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory “English is not my native language and I don’t have a beta, so be merciful” speech.   
> I use «» for dialogues. Such is the fate of being Italian, you get used to what you see in books. 
> 
> Quenya names because they’re in the safety of Maedhros’ fortress. 
> 
> For the ones who are curious about some more insight about this story, the end notes have you covered, but right off the bat: someone asked me how I imagine elves and Ainur to look like, so here I go (you can skip if you don’t particularly care).   
> I envision all elves to have extremely, and I mean EXTREMELY pale skin. Not quite “human” white, but paler, as if the light of the stars is on their skin. I always loved the concept of them looking like that, since they are people of the stars. Think an almost white (not “normal” pink!) skin, but still a bit more alive and animated with that subtle glow, like how Galadriel is depicted in the movies when in Lothlorien. I know there are countless depictions of dark-skinned elves, and I love them to pieces (dammit, Fingon looks so beautiful in those fanarts), but I cannot let go of this idea.   
> As a comparison, Mairon has human-like white skin, but shaded with warm gold and orange, almost like fire is under it, and Melkor is basically pure white with shades of blue, much like Manwë, while Oromë is more “tanned” and Yavanna has dark skin shaded with green and gold. Varda could be either pure black (black as the night sky) and littered with star-freckles, or glowing white with black hair littered with stars.   
> All of them, Ainur and Elves, are not human, and I never imagined them to be “normal” looking. 
> 
> Now onto the story.

Nights were always cold, in Himring. Cruel winds tugged at clothes and hair, biting uncovered skin and bringing countless shivers, a never-ending cycle of snow, freezing rain, and weak sun.   
The days weren’t any warmer, for that land held the name of “ever-cold” for a reason, but the nights were always without warmth, so cold that it wasn’t bizarre to think of snow and winter even in summer.

As much as he enjoyed his somewhat frequent visits, Findekáno dreaded the cold.   
Crossing the Ice, so many years lost in snowstorms and frozen tears, made him wary of it, every shiver a memory still engraved in his mind. He was slowly growing accustomed to it, but he still hadn’t forgotten the long march above creaking ice, that way he had been forced to rest close to his family, to strangers, to anyone that could give him a bit of warmth. Furs and blankets weren’t enough, on the Grinding Ice. Many bears they had slain, massive and dangerous beasts that killed in retaliation, but their soft coats only helped and did not solve.   
Findekáno would probably never forget the terror of the Ice, the constant crying of their followers, the angry murmuring of those who wanted Fëanáro to pay for the Burning of the Ships. But he had to leave it behind.

Beleriand was not like Valinor. Seasons mattered, there, nothing was perpetual. Winter was dangerous, eating crops and animals alike, and the even those who couldn’t bear the cold anymore had to learn how to accept it, how to make do with lands so different and merciless.   
Spring and summer were welcomed with relief, and autumn was treasured, but being scared of snow and ice wasn’t acceptable. All the exiled, all those who were left behind, gradually grew accustomed to it. it wasn’t the same, it wasn’t as deadly, and it had some beauty. Enough, maybe, not to be afraid anymore.

Findekáno was no exception. Him stubbornly travelling to the lands of Himring more often than it was maybe safe was proof of his progress.   
But, though his dislike for the cold was never hidden, even if outgrew, the firstborn of Nolofinwë knew why Maedhros had chosen that place.   
Strategic reasons were true, for his fortress was an impenetrable beast of thick wall and strong gates, death for all evil. But not the only ones. Many liked to say that he retreated in a land so deprived of warmth as to emphasize how he wasn’t scared of the cold, many of those elves who still hated, but Maedhros was not so malicious. Those voices had become so insistent and aggressive that Nolofinwë himself had to step in and put an end to them.

Findekáno needed a while to understand what Maitimo never told him out loud.   
Before Angband, Maitimo was in love with warmth and hot weather, loved sitting beside a lit fireplace. He enjoyed spending time with his father down in the forge, never suffered the heat coming from flames and fire.   
When Findekáno brought him back, broken and bloody, things changed.   
He didn’t notice at first, but soon after Maitimo woke up he began to pick up some bizarre behaviors.   
Maitimo refused to sit down an open fire again, retreated from it almost, like he was afraid of being burned by it; warmth started becoming somewhat scarce around him, despite his fëa burning brighter and brighter every new day. He chased some of it for comfort, but he never asked for more that what was necessary.   
It was like Maitimo wanted to flee from anything warmer than his own hröa.  
Slowly, Findekáno’s understanding became clearer.

When Maitimo finally allowed him to be close again, though not so much that he could touch him, Findekáno took a glimpse at those wounds he didn’t notice while cutting him down from the mountain. Cuts, scrapes, bites, those he saw quite clearly, crudely healed during his time as a captive, but some other wound escaped his keen eyes. Hidden under dust and grime, invisible to someone that had no other priority than taking Maitimo away from his prison.   
Burn scars, long burned lines left there by scalding irons, crisscrossing all over his body. His skin had been licked by fire and flames, ruined and healed and ruined again. Some of those scars, Fingon nearly cried in horror when his eyes caught their existence, resembled the shape of clawing hands.   
He never fully understood the state his body was truly in, Maitimo not allowing anyone to look at his naked body save the healers; Findekáno only saw him while he was asleep, forced to rest by song and medicine.   
But when he learned of those scars, either by his own eyes or by asking his brothers, Findekáno knew exactly why Maitimo fled from the fire.

Mairon, now called Sauron, the cruel torturer seduce by Morgoth away from the light, was a Maia of pure fire, burning with flames inside and outside. An old servant of Aulë, honed in a forge.   
He heard the terrible tales of his appearance, from those only two elves that survived the ambush, listened to Erestor and Calimnár as they described a fearsome Maia with blazing eyes and fiery hair, shaking in fear and pain.   
Even with that, Findekáno never linked Maitimo’s fear to the one that tortured him for so long, as he learned when his beloved himself screamed and whimpered that name in his sleep. But as soon as he saw the hands marking his body, everything fell in place.   
The reason why Maitimo was terrified of the fire and its warmth was the cruelest one, because fire was what he felt when merciless hands cut and slashed and burned with no end. Even the Sun, able to brighten the soul with its rays, scared Maitimo off the first time he saw it, the first time he felt its warmth on his skin.

Maitimo chose to live in the lands of Himring because they were cold. Always cold, always covered in clouds and swept by wind. The Sun shined as well, but it was colder, rays unable to give more than a soft warmth where they hit. It was a land of strategic purposes, but also a place when Maitimo could find some comfort.   
His fortress was warm, just enough for his people not to feel miserable, but nothing more than that. Even the kitchens couldn’t keep their fires going for long.   
When visiting those halls, covered in layers of wool and fur over his shoulders, Findekáno was always shivering, while Maitimo seemed to live perfectly well without lit fireplaces spreading their heat. Only a handful had flames dancing in them, and only those ones that Maitimo didn’t need to have close.   
His own room, where Findekáno had to keep warm by hiding under many blankets, had space for a fire, but it was so clean and pristine no one believed flames ever burned into it.

Even now, laying down on the bed he only recently started sharing again with his lover, Findekáno was cocooned in layers and layers of blankets.   
For his sake, Maitimo always made sure to keep more than he needed, and to have some warmer ones as well if winter called for them. He was aware of how much Findekáno still loathed the cold, despite being far more comfortable with it after so many years, and the number of times the redhead told his beloved to stop subjecting himself to that weather couldn’t be counted anymore.   
When that particular conversation happened, Findekáno planted his feet on the ground, as if not even the strongest winds could move him, and looked at Maitimo with an expression so stern he could only shake his head and give up.   
They weren’t going to live like that forever. Time was still needed for them to heal, but cold and heat were going to stop being something to be scared of.   
In the meantime, compromises were good, especially considering that Maitimo never visited Hithlum.

Since the cold lands needed to be watched, it was the Valiant’s duty – and pleasure – to hop on horseback and reach his loved to spend some time with him. Though, Barad Eithel was far from a place Maitimo would have wanted to visit, unless necessary.   
And Findekáno was probably the only one that knew the reason.   
On hindsight, telling his father about their broken marriage bond had been an awful idea. Not that he had been given much of a choice, for his father saw the dimmed light in his son’s eyes as soon as their mourning for Argon was over, but Findekáno would have liked not to give him any explanations.   
However, even if Nolofinwë was angry, his anger wasn’t directed towards Maitimo, nor towards their marriage. He was furious at the lies they both told their fathers, hiding their bond and making up excuses if questions were asked.   
Nolofinwë, as he openly told his son, wasn’t going to rob him from that happiness, despite bad blood still being a harsh reality between their families. The situation was better, and forgiveness had been gifted, but not everyone agreed with one host or the other.   
Maitimo, fully aware of the issues, preferred to stay away from the city, and Findekáno never forced him to travel.

He would have loved to share the beauty of those halls with his beloved, but not at the cost of his comfort.

«Come to bed», Findekáno broke the silence, frowning at how Maitimo was still bent on his desk, quill in his hand and many papers on the side. The flickering light of a candle was the only source of light in the room, and rested on the nightstand. Maitimo, keeping away from it, was reading and writing using the light of the stars.   
Not receiving an answer, Findekáno rolled his eyes and thought about throwing a pillow at him: «You need to rest», he spoke again, this time more firmly.   
it was a bad habit he picked up after getting back to his feet, overworking himself to the point of exhaustion, which meant going through sleepless nights and scare food and water only to collapse from overexertion a week later. For Maitimo, it seemed that times of peace were just times to work until he passed out.   
Elves didn’t really need to sleep often, and in Valinor most of them preferred to simply rest enough for their bodies and spirits to regain vitality, but a war and a new land were no joke; sleep had become somewhat normal among those elves that took house in Beleriand, if only a temporary solution to the grief they experienced in waking hours.   
It was the mind, more than the body, that needed it most. Over time, the dwellers of Beleriand got so used to that routine of being awake during the day and asleep during the night that no one questioned that bizarre new habit anymore.   
Maitimo, however, still refused to conform. An unfortunately for him, he was maybe one of the few that _actually_ needed sleep so often to regain energy, given the strain his body had been forced through.

Findekáno sighed, as Maitimo ignored him in favor of his work, and threw the blankets aside. He got up, shivering a but as he wore nothing but simple night clothes, and walked up to his lover. There, he leaned down and draped his arms around the redhead’s shoulders, joining them at the center of his chest.   
His chin resting on Maitimo’s shoulder, Findekáno turned around just enough to leave a soft kiss on his cheek: «Come to bed, my love», he whispered. «There will be time for this in the morning».

As much as he wanted to keep writing and checking the map he’d been studying for days, Maitimo ended up indulging in Findekáno’s attentions. He was, admittedly, more tired that he was willing to recognize otherwise, and more than once the quill slipped on the parchment, as his hand cramped.   
He gave in to the dark haired elf gentle kisses, and hip lips quivered as he attempted a smile; it was always like that, between them, Maitimo would pay too much attention to politics and geography, and Findekáno would successfully coax him out of his work, with a gentleness he never expected to experience again.   
Findekáno’s hand came to rest on his own, making him drop the quill on the desk before raising it to love some kisses on the back.   
He was so kind so loving… Maitimo often asked himself if he truly deserved to be so loved, after his deeds. After standing aside as his father burned the ships, refusing to do the same but not stepping in to put a stop to the fire.   
It took him a long time to accept that love once again, took days after days of Findekáno refusing to leave, refusing to stop loving him. Maitimo didn’t know what to believe, back then. He still wasn’t sure if the elf before his eyes was real, or yet another trick used by Sauron  
The first time he opened his eyes and saw Findekáno sitting beside him, Maitimo almost tried to kill him. Weak as he was, he couldn’t even graze his skin with the knife he grabbed from the nightstand, but he tried nonetheless.   
After, when Findekáno flooded their broken and feeble bond with his presence, Maitimo curled up and cried, realizing he just tried to kill his only love.

Long months had passed since that episode, before Maitimo could accept Findekáno’s touch again.

«Go back to bed», he finally spoke, his voice rough as he kept silent for hours. «You’re cold».

True, Findekáno had to admit it. His night clothes were not warm enough to stay out of bed in a room without a lit fireplace, and he started shivering. Then again, he wasn’t willing to comply without Maitimo following him, and he said it out loud.   
The statement earned him a deep breath, but the fëanorian turned to chastely kiss his lips and nodded.   
Satisfied with his small victory, Findekáno gave him a bright smile and all but jumped back under the covers, glad to be back in their warmth.   
«Where you will finally feel adventurous enough to light a proper fire in this room, please call me. I do _not_ want to miss such an event», he couldn’t help saying, not missing the amused glint in Maitimo’s eyes as he turned around.   
They came to a point where Maitimo was not opposed anymore to that kind of humor, dark in its own way. As soon as the redhead conjured up the first joke about fire, Findekáno knew things were starting to become better, at long last. Daring something more was still risky, but for the time being it was more than enough.   
At least Maitimo didn’t shy away from the lone _idea_ of fire anymore.

Findekáno watched as his lover rose from the chair and stretched, well knowing how his muscles rippled under pale skin, toned and perfect despite his long years trapped in Angband. Before his recovery he had been weak, scrawny, reduced to almost a shadow of himself, but Maitimo was back as strong as he was before being captured, if not stronger.   
Only his shoulder still gave him some pain, yet he was lucky to still have his arm; hadn’t him been of elvish kin, the healers would have had to amputate it. Years spent hanging from a mountain were no light problem, and Maitimo was probably going to have issues with that arm for the rest of his life.   
Findekáno would have given everything he owned and even more to forget those first days after Maitimo woke up, so weak and helpless he didn’t even have the strength to lift or hold a glass of water.

Slowly, he shook his head to rid it of those thoughts; they were at peace, though not exactly complete, and it was no time for such memories.   
However, when Maitimo started unclasping his robes, an overly familiar sense of dread washed over him.   
Since the day he woke up, Maitimo had been extremely reluctant to show his body to Findekáno; with his brothers and healers he had to, and Makalaurë was the one he was most comfortable with, but he never accepted to undress himself in front of his lover.   
It had been a hard decision to swallow, for someone who was used to look at that hröa, to feel skin and muscles under his fingers, feel him warmth and perfection without needing to ask, but he respected it fully.   
Even if he knew that body as well as his own, even if it was still beautiful and well-shaped to his eyes, Findekáno stopped looking at it, turned around or closed his eyes whenever Maitimo wanted to change from day to night clothes, and vice versa.   
Maitimo, once, took great pride in his hröa. He wasn’t self-centered, neither he used his beauty to look down on others, but he loved how well his name fit his appearance. Now, marred and ruined, he let only Findekáno use his mother-name to address him.

When the dark haired elf started looking away, recovering from the surprise of not being told to do so, Maitimo’s voice came husky and gentle to his ears, asking him not to avert his eyes.   
Startled from that sudden request, Findekáno hesitated: «Are you sure? You refused to show yourself for so long…», his voice trailed off as he spoke, still unsure.   
He was scared Maitimo was taking a step too long for his legs, didn’t want him to suffer for something so trivial.   
The first time he witnessed one of his fits of terror, he could do nothing as Maitimo fell to his knees, trembling as if scared to death of everything surrounding him, tears flowing from his eyes and lips open in a silent scream. It was so painful to look at him, then, and Findekáno had been terrified of nearing him, not knowing how to deal with that.   
Only Makalaurë’s intervention, quick and mindful, managed to bring back his brother.   
Other times, those Findekáno could handle, Maitimo simply stopped talking the middle of a sentence, gazing at nothing with empty eyes, or sat down in complete loneliness and acted as if no one existed around him.   
It was unpredictable.   
Fear, rage, emptiness, sorrow… Findekáno had seen them all, and Maitimo’s brothers more than him. He didn’t know how they coped with that, with a brother so broken and desperate, with _Maedhros_ instead of the beautiful, strong-willed _Maitimo_ they all wished to have back.   
He didn’t know how Maitimo coped with that.

But the look in his grey eyes was resolute, more than it had ever been behind their closed doors, and Findekáno could only nod in understanding. Maitimo was putting his trust on his shoulders, and he would not betray him.   
He watched, enthralled, as flowing fabric slipped away from his frame, pooling around his feet in a scarlet pile, and his breath hitched when Maitimo bent down to remove first the boots, then his breeches. The redhead didn’t care of them, simply leaving everything on the floor, and Findekáno drank in the sight.   
Even scarred, Maitimo was the most beautiful being he could lay his eyes upon. Pale skin, maybe a bit too ashen still, defined muscles, perfect curves he knew by heart. Long training hours showed on his healing hröa, his left arm stronger than the right had been, though not different in appearance.   
Findekáno let his eyes wander, and stopped on the stump that was left at the end of his right arm; his fault, the missing hand, but a guilt he was willing to endure, for Maitimo was back, alive and breathing, and not dead with an arrow piercing his heart.

He didn’t miss that Maitimo kept his undergarments on, like he never used to do when laying with Findekáno, but he couldn’t care less. He desired that body, he had to admit it, but more than anything he desired peace for his fëa.   
He could wait until the end of the Days, if the prize was to see Maitimo finally happy.   
«So beautiful», he commented, raising a hand as if to touch him, regardless of the distance separating them. «My _Maitimo_ ».

Hearing those words, Maitimo wanted to shake his head, tell him than no, he wasn’t beautiful anymore, just a mess of scars and burns and crudely healed wounds, but the glittering light in his lover’s eyes told him not to say so.   
Findekáno looked at him with silent adoration, the same fondness of their younger days, and for a moment he demanded for his mind to believe it. Believe all that love, or that devotion he didn’t quite deserve anymore.   
Taking his time, still dreading the moment when Findekáno would inevitably turn his head the other way to stop looking at his disfigured body, Maitimo made his way to the bed, fell on top of the sheets and laid down next to his… lover? He didn’t know if he could call Findekáno his husband anymore.   
Despite Sauron having broken their bond, there was still some strings joining their minds. He liked to think they were still married.   
It eased the pain, if only just a little. It helped him to endure the memory of Sauron taking him for the first time, shattering the only light he had left in that fortress of darkness.   
He wanted to believe there was still something unmarred between them.

The weight dipping the mattress beside him was something very familiar, and Findekáno smiled fondly as Maitimo wiggled a bit, making himself comfortable. He would slide under the covers only after getting accustomed to the warmth of another body so close to him, so the Valiant did nothing to urge his movements.   
Instead, he turned on his side and stretched his arm, fingers fluttering just above skin but not daring to fall any closer.  
Maitimo still seemed unsure of that new situation, eyes a bit too wide and breathing less controlled than normal; if he scared him off, or triggered one of his episodes, Findekáno would never forgive himself.   
«Can I touch you?», he asked, uncertainty tainting his voice. «I… I will not go too far».

Maitimo thought about it.   
By now, he was used to Findekáno touching his through layers of fabric, with his face being the only exception. He loved how his soft hands caressed him gently and caringly, how his lips left loving kissed; so different from the hot, rough claws and fingers that took hold of his skin just to burn and hurt and possess.   
It had taken him a long time to get there, but the happiness he felt the moment Findekáno finally touched him again had been blissful.   
Enough time had to have passed, he figured.   
He nodded.   
«Keep above my navel», Maitimo however warned him, though forcing calmness in his voice. «And don’t… _please_ don’t touch my hips». The addition made his tone falter a bit, but he needed to say that, needed a small reassurance.   
He almost felt foolish in saying that, but he wasn’t ready for his lover to touch him there, not with the burn of Sauron’s hands still living strong.

The slight hesitation in his beloved’s voice made Findekáno’s heart bleed. He didn’t show it, for Maitimo hated to see pity and commiseration on people’s faces towards him, but knowing what the beautiful being beside him had to endure almost brought tears to his eyes.   
But, Maitimo _did_ want Findekáno to touch him, so he didn’t let him down.   
Carefully, as if guided by deep reverence, the dark haired elf brushed trembling fingers against scarred skin, just the tips of them, always keeping an eye out of his lover’s reaction.   
After the first touch on his bare chest Maitimo took a sharp breath, and Findekáno almost pulled away in alarm, but soon the redhead relaxed.   
Findekáno dared to place his whole hand on him, not too eager; he could feel his chest raising and lowering as he breathed, could feel the quickened pace of his heart, and shifted as to used his other hand to turn Maitimo’s face towards him.   
His eyes were still too wide, the shadow of old fear looming in them, so Findekáno smiled his sweetest smile: «Shhh, it’s me, you’re safe», he told him, blinking slowly, almost as if Maitimo was a cat that needed to be reassured of his safety. «I love you, my Russandol».

At that, Maitimo’s heartbeat picked up even more, but when Findekáno tried to take his hand away in worry, the redhead closed his own fingers around the valiant’s wrist and kept it there.   
Right above his heart, above his life.   
_Stay_ , he was telling him. _You keep me alive_.   
He felt Maitimo’s emotion tug at the scraps of their bond, and warmth spread in his chest; they weren’t so lost, after all.

«Few in this lands still love me», was Maitimo’s bittersweet reply, followed by a rather sarcastic smile. «But I have received one true gift in this Doom. And that, my dearest Finno, is _you_ ».   
He wanted to smile at how Findekáno’s face flushed, hearing those words. Feeling a bit more daring, Maitimo half-draped his loved over himself, pulling at his arm to make him come closer, and stole a kiss from beautiful, perfect lips, lips that he could have recognized even blind.   
It wasn’t as it used to be, with Findekáno all over him like a living blanket, but it was pleasant.   
Some years before, when Alqualondë was merely a city and not the name of a Kinslaying, they would have used that opportunity as a gateway to something more heated, tearing away layers of clothes from each other, kissing fervently and passionately as they neared lovemaking.   
Those days were nothing more than a dream.   
Maitimo hoped, hoped with all his might, that one day he would be able to give himself to Findekáno again, would be able to let his valiant take him and se so often claimed his body in return, to love and consume without losing his bearings and go back to blazing hands and cruel violence.  
He was getting there. He _had_ to get there.

For the moment, he contented himself with the feeling of Findekáno’s hair between his fingers, as he brushed long black tresses with his hand, sliding gold ribbon after gold ribbon away from numerous braids. He loved to watch as his beloved’s hair cascaded onto his back like a dark waterfall, a piece of night sky trapped on his head. They were soft, the slightest bit curly because of the braids, and smelled so nice.   
Maitimo patiently undid all the braids, cursing under his breath when some proved to be more difficult than others, in order to gift himself that magnificent view.   
Findekáno let him have his fun, murmuring sweet nothings and lazily kissing his face, still caressing everywhere he was allowed to touch.   
It was nice.

As soon as he was done, Maitimo threw all the ribbons on the nightstand and stole yet another kiss, this time claiming plush lips, and Findekáno coaxed him under the covers.   
Warm, not hot. He was fine.   
Findekáno’s body so close to him, hands still barely touching, were fine.   
When he fell asleep, exhausted, he left the realm of the waking with a melodious voice lulling him to a deep slumber.

Findekáno woke up in the middle of the night, madly shivering as freezing cold air assailed him. The pale light of the starts filtered through a small opening in the curtains, so he could learn the reason of his abrupt waking.   
The blankets, wool and fur, slid away in their sleep, leaving their bodies prey to the night.   
Brows furrowing, he sat up to get them back in their place, but as he turned around to see if Maitimo was fine, Findekáno froze in place.   
His lover was sleeping on his stomach, arms tucked under a soft pillow, and hair strewn about like rivers of fire, but it wasn’t that – still splendid – view that captured his attention. A shiver run down his body, not of cold but of horror, as he looked at Maitimo’s now exposed back.   
During his rescue, Findekáno had seen the deep cuts caused by whips and blades, but no more than that. At the time, Maitimo was still covered in dried up blood and filth, and the Valiant was far more concerned with his bleeding arm than with his back.   
Even when he realized how much worse the situation was, he only noticed less than half of the damage.   
Now, with wounds healed and skin clean, he could see something that made his stomach turn and his heart sink, worse than the time he gazed upon the hands of Sauron imprinted on him.

At the center of his back, between his shoulder blades.   
Not a brand burned into the skin, but deep cuts engraved in his flesh, scars of something that had been drawn onto him by skilled and steady hands, not by a butcher.   
Findekáno felt tears falling down his cheek as he looked at the eye carved into Maitimo’s back, marking him like he was property of the enemy, ad barely refrained from reaching and touching. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Maitimo didn’t want any hand or finger on that.

Despite the sorrow mangling his heart, Findekáno swallowed his anguish and simply draped the covers over Maitimo’s sleeping form, careful not to wake him.   
He couldn’t even imagine the toll that Sauron’s mark took on his lover. The pain of his body, and the torment of his mind. To know of being marked as someone’s possession, as someone’s plaything… Findekáno had no idea of what it meant, for his beloved.   
Maitimo would let him know when he felt ready to do so. And if that readiness was never to come, Findekáno would not press him to tell.   
In the meantime, he could keep close to him, and love him like his life depended on it.   
Maybe, a voice told him in the deepest corner of his mind, his love was genuinely the only reason Maitimo was still alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Calimnár: from calima “bright” and nár “fire”. He is one of the warriors that followed Maedhros to Morgoth’s deceiving diplomatic attempt. 
> 
> By this time, Erestor (yes, that Erestor, check out “The Weary Counselor” in this series if you’re confused) was already one of Maedhros’ captains. He fled instead of fighting because Maedhros ordered him to run away in case of an attack. I know no one survived, but this is a fanwork and I like the idea of Erestor being so close to Maedhros by the end of the First Age because he always followed him first.   
> Erestor and Calimnár survived just because Sauron was busy with capturing Maedhros, and managed to flee with many wounds.   
> Also, I always loved the idea of Sauron himself being there to capture Maedhros, and it makes more sense to me than a bunch of orcs trying to get their hands on a warrior like him, especially with Maedhros knowing it was a trap and bringing help along. 
> 
> Maedhros tried to kill Fingon because, as it’s now something common in this fandom, Sauron used to shapeshift into him in order to abuse his prisoner. Also, the knife Maedhros grabbed was simple cutlery, Fingon or whoever was there before him had to eat. 
> 
> By this time (the fic is set during the Long Peace) Fingon was definitely staying in Dor-lómin rather than with his father, but I think Maedhros would have had to visit Barad Eithel nonetheless, given complicated Noldorin politics and the like. 
> 
> This is probably obvious in the fic, but I’ll specify it nonetheless: Maedhros spent the minority of his captivity in Angband, and the majority hanging outside. In my old (really old) notes I wrote down 34 years in total, 10 in Angband and 24 on the Thangorodrim. If I’m not horribly mistaken, Fingolfin’s host took about 27 solar years to cross the Helcaraxë, and I counted some years of settling down and trying to understand what to do and how to do it before they met Fëanor’s followers and discovered what happened. This might seem a long time of sitting idly, but elves are still not used to the shorter days/years, so for them it’s less than a Valian year, (which is 9 years, 212 days, and 18 hours). It doesn’t make sense for them to immediately get accustomed to the different temporal units.   
> And if I remember correctly Maedhros got captured not too long after the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, during the same year (A.A. 1497), so the time spent by Fingolfin’s host to settle down it’s less than a Valian year for sure. 
> 
> If you liked it, think about leaving a comment! You don’t have to, but it always makes my day.   
> See you in the next story!


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